Drowning In Fire
by VirendraLione
Summary: Not long before Vincent/Jerome leaves for Titan, Jerome/Eugene confides in his paid company for the evening. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Gattaca. Nor do I own any of the recognisable characters I may have used in this here fanfiction. I am merely borrowing them for my own amusement. _

**Drowning In Fire. **

_**Eugene confides in his paid company for the evening, just before 'Jerome' leaves for Titan. She doesn't know why and, to be honest, neither does he. **_

_**Chapter One:**_

He's already waiting for her when she lets herself in, as per arranged. She's new and this is the first time she's been here, but he has an arrangement with her 'manager'. He knows the drill and his girls are usually discreet. After all, discretion comes with the territory.

He fixes his gaze on the ceiling and follows the sound of her heels as she strides across the real wood floor above. Her gait is slow, but he can't make out if this is trepidation or just part of a routine. He doesn't call out and offer direction; he's sure she's been told where he'll be

If it were any other evening, he'd have already moved to the bed, removed his shoes, discarded his waistcoat, poured a couple of glasses of brandy or scotch, (or whatever he fancied at the time) and they'd be waiting patiently on the bedside table. She'd descend the spiral staircase, possibly shed her cotton skin half way down. Confident. Alluring. He'd watch her pause at the last step as she surveys the minimalist decor with suspicion. He'd put her at ease with a remark of some description; something charming and long, something he could smile to and give her the chance to savour his accent. She'd love it, of course. They always did. Perhaps because it was different. Just enough to let them pretend that they were elsewhere, being properly romanced by a real gentleman in some prelude to a fairy tale ending.

But this isn't any other evening and he is not on the bed.

Instead, he is in his chair in the center of the room, eyes tracing her footfall above, almost as if he can see through the concrete. He nearly laughs at the thought; even _his_ eyesight is not _that _good.

He blinks slowly as she reaches the top step, pausing for a heartbeat. Then she lowers herself and takes the first few steps in the same patient pace as before. His own heart beats steady as she finally comes into view. Part of her anyway. Her foot, to be specific. Even from this distance he can see it is small, no bigger than a size five (if he had to guess, that is) and encased in a sleek stiletto with a burgundy sheen. The shoe compliments her black stockings, uninterrupted by ladders or holes. These girls are reputable, after all. Pricey, some would say, but worth it; they're clean and decent and more or less perfect.

Usually, he never wonders about their origins. In truth, he couldn't care less whether they're valid or not; to refuse an invalid girl would feel wrong after having lived with Vincent for so long, but tonight...tonight he wonders.

He studies the leg and picks out a mole on the girl's calf. It is barely indistinguishable from the stocking, but he can see it. Perhaps he was looking for it, or at least something like it. A scar perhaps, thin and covered up, but noticeable in the right light. A scar that would encircle the otherwise normal leg, the last remnant of pain endured the pursuit of a dream.

The girl takes another step and he cannot help but to search her other leg for anything unusual. There is nothing. It is perfect. Slim, toned and accustomed to walking in heels.

She descends further and her hips come into view. They are covered by the hem of a trench coat, but still he detects a curve there. He imagines them clad in lace, possibly in a colour to match the shoes, though black would suffice. The coat belt is tied at her slim waist, synching the jacket in an attractive rouche that serves to accentuate her feminine shape. Not quite a full hour glass, he imagines, but enough curves to hold his attention, at least.

She finally comes fully into view and he guesses that she is invalid. He would never have said so on any other evening, but tonight is not any other evening...

It's her height that betrays her; she's short, no more than five foot two. Generally, lack of height is a dead giveaway. Parents want their children to be beautiful and, apparently, height equals beauty.

In everything else, the girl is perfect; she has blue eyes that sparkle in the dim light, hair the colour of honey and skin supple and unblemished (save for a few beauty marks or moles) with the slightest sun-kissed hue.

The girl cranes her neck a little, surveys her surroundings until she finally sees him and, if there is any surprise at all at finding a cripple, she hides it well.  
She smiles instead and alights from the staircase finally. He offers a half-hearted smile and hers fades a little at this.

He detects the faintest tremour in her fingertips as she reaches for the belt and takes the two ends. She begins to pull them apart, slowly and in the manner she has come to learn in her line of work. She approaches him, careful to place one petite foot in front of the other in a seductive stride that makes her hips swing.

He blinks and looks away.

"Stop." He breathes, almost sensing the dismay in the girl.

This one small word has saddened her and this makes itself known in the moist blur on her lower lids. She tries well to hide it, takes a breath and drops her hands to her sides. She says nothing, pivots, takes the handrail beneath her palm, her left foot leads and falls upon the wooden surface with a heavy 'clack'.

The sound causes a pinprick of guilt.

"Wait." He offers, watching her half-turn back to him, an errant bead of moisture surmounting her right cheekbone, "Don't go."

* * *

_**To be honest, I am not entirely sure where this is going. It just popped into my head after watching Gattaca the other day and wouldn't let me sleep until I attempted to write it up. I have a few chapters written so far, so maybe I will upload them fairly quickly. I hope you enjoyed reading this anyway. **_


	2. Chapter 2

**Drowning In Fire.**

**Chapter Two:**

They make it to the bed in the end, but for no reason other than the distinct lack of other furniture in the space. He sits up against the pillow and she is on her stomach. Both still are dressed.

He swirls an inch of scotch in a whiskey glass, an ice cube clinking against the sides with the action. She nurses a glass of her own, catching the beads of moisture on the outside with manicured fingertips. She studies them a moment or two before she realises she's being watched and discards the droplets on the sleeve of the coat she still wears.

She avoids his gaze, clears her throat.

"Why am I here?" She asks finally, forming the words carefully as if they are foreign to her.

He wonders why.

"Because." He replies with a non-commital shrug, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.

The answer is unsatisfactory. He can see it in her eyes, suddenly devoid of sparkle. Her shoulders tense and she straightens her back. He pre-empts her rising to leave, picks up from his last word, tries to make her think she merely misheard as if she merely failed to register his tone of voice.

"Because maybe I just want to talk." He reads her as he speaks and she meets his gaze, eyes narrowed slightly, lips parting to speak. He beats her to it.

"Maybe...I have something to confess...and I couldn't afford a priest."

He gives something of a laugh there and she feels obligated to match it, even though there is miscomprehension in her azure orbs.  
He finishes his glass and she reaches for the bottle on the floor beside the bed. He holds the tumbler steady to be refilled. He doesn't ask for ice. He's afraid she'll leave if he sends her for some.

He sips at the room temperature whiskey.

"What did you want to confess?" She asks, a tone of genuine interest in her words and he takes a moment to think, to assess her trust-worthiness.

Is she going to run and tell her colleagues about tonight? About the cripple with the confession, who only wanted to talk? Would it really matter if she did?

* * *

_**I apologise for the short length of this chapter, but I thought that this would be best to stand as it is. I couldn't quite bring myself to tack it onto either the end of Chapter One or the beginning of Chapter Three. The next chapter is pretty long, so hopefully that will make up for this very short one. Thanks for reading at any rate!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Drowning In Fire.**

**Chapter Three:**

The air around him is heavy with rain; large droplets that would soak him through if he stepped off the veranda. He is ill-prepared for such weather; his thin high-necked fleece, dark jeans and deck shoes will offer little or no protection from such a deluge. He leans forwards, palms resting on the damp white balustrade, and allows his gaze to find the horizon. It is grey and misted, the line of trees that usually resemble unrelenting sentinels on the estate's border is nigh invisible against the oyster shell sky.

Pushing his weight from the railing he rounds one of the columns and finds himself at the top of the steps leading from the porch. He takes a breath and raises a leg, ready to step.

He expects the chill embrace of the rain, the globules finding space between the fibers of his clothing, not resting until they summon goosebumps to the surface of his skin.

Instead, a band of warmth wraps around his middle.

A downward glance tells him it is Anthea; long thin fingers intertwine at his naval and, even despite the sun's shroud, a single solitaire diamond glistens on her left ring finger.

She rests her chin on his left shoulder and he inclines his head, closes his eyes, savours her breath against his cheek.

"And just where do you think you're going?" She asks, her tone spritely and teasing.

"Nowhere." He replies all too quickly.

She seems not to notice and gives him a squeeze.

"Well, you can go 'nowhere' later; dinner's almost ready."

He heaves a sigh, beseeches her with her name to just leave him be. She ignores him, releases his abdomen in favour of his shoulders and turns him, presses her lips to his.

For moments, they are two perfect people lost in the perfect kiss. Or at least that is what it would seem. He, however, is not perfect.

She is; frame slim and tall, eyes large and dark, skin pale and smooth. Her hair is the colour of chocolate and falls in glossy tresses over her shoulders. She's smart too, teaches at a boarding school nearby. Her students always get the highest grades. Her co-workers praise her upbeat demeanour, her kindness, her personality. They say she brings out the best in them, both student and adult.

He isn't sure that she was made that way, that that is what her parents specified at the clinic. Hell, he isn't even sure if that's possible.

No, he decides, finally. It is not possible. If it were, then her parents would have said 'everybody'. The doctors would have made note of that word and then they would have crafted her, instilled in her genes the coding for the ability to bring out the best in everybody.

_Everybody._

And not _'Everybody but him'._

The piece of silver in his pocket is infallible proof of this impossibility.

He half considered throwing it away, forgetting it even existed, writing it off as a bad dream or something he half-imagined one night after one too many glasses of whiskey. Even if he did, he would never be able to forget. _They _wouldn't let him. Anthea would be so proud, she'd bring it up every chance she could. His parents would be the same. His future mother and father-in-law would bring it up at dinner parties or prestigious events:

_"You'll never guess who our little Anthea is going to marry...That's right; Jerome Morrow!"_

_"Jerome Morrow? The olympic silver medalist, Jerome Morrow?"_

_"The very same!"_

They'd never see it as he did_. _They'd never see it as just second best.

But silver _is_ only second best. And that means _he_ is only second best. One step down on the podium. That is where he'll always be.

And she...she deserves better.

* * *

_**That's Chapter Three for you. Hopefully, it's getting a little more interesting now. Like I said before, I don't really know where this is going, but I wrote it for the hell of it. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Thanks for reading!**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four:**

He sits beside her at dinner and the room is filled with laughter and chatter and the clatter and clink of the dinnerware. He barely eats anything, but this is nothing much out of the ordinary. Instead, he scrutinises the assembled dinner guests, envies their perfection.

His sister, Jayne, sits opposite him, laughing at her lawyer husband, Gregory's, attempts at jokes. She grips his arms in a gesture of supportive affection then reaches out to take up the glass to her fingers fall to their habitual positions; middle and ring closest together, with index and little an equal space from the paired off digits. Her thumb is parallel to the middle two on the opposite side of the stem and she lifts the glass delicately and gracefully. He has no trouble imagining her cello bow in place of the glass.

There are others belonging to their generation too; a few childhood friends, a cousin or two, Anthea's mother's friend's twins, Donny and Will, both nineteen and both trying to pick future careers (their parents leaving such concerns mostly to chance).

His parents, Anthea's and Gregory's are also present and concern themselves with boasting and gloating over the achievements of their respective offspring. He listens on tenterhooks for his name, the mention of the medal, the reason for this little family dinner.

With every second that passes without mention of him, he grows uneasy. The fact that they have yet to touch upon the olympic event that very morning, means that they must be saving it for something else.

He envisages a toast on his behalf, everyone lifting their glasses to him and his silver medal. They'll call it an acheivement to be proud of and he will be forced to smile and nod and take it all in good humour whilst his superego punishes him with guilt and inward avowals of, _"You should have tried harder.", "You should have won the gold." _and _"You'll only ever be second best."_

He stays until dessert, excuses himself then, saying he needs some fresh air, breathes a sigh of relief when no one follows.

Anthea smiles kindly and mouths the word 'nowhere' with a wink. He nods, winks back, puts her at ease and leaves the room.

It is still pouring when he eventually steps off the veranda.

* * *

**_Hope you're still enjoying this fic. I have a couple of ideas for upcoming chapters so hopefully they shouldn't take too long to write. Thanks for reading ! _**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

The rain soaks him through in mere seconds. It summons a tremor to his frame and a fuzziness to the back of his throat that may be prelude to a cold (if he could catch colds, that is).

He has no idea where he is going, or what he might do when he gets there. He could circle around the estate, return to the mansion where jokes would be made about how he merely couldn't stay out of the water, be it that of the pool or precipitation. He could walk up the drive, head for the road to Horsham, take the left by the bridge and trudge alongside the restless canal, all the while wondering at its depth.

In the end, he takes the dirt track by the little cabin, used to accommodate the occasional housekeeper, and continues on through the copse. The umbrella canopy stretches over him, hinders the raindrops some. He muses a moment on how it might wish him grateful for the action, but he has no gratitude for the relief. In truth, he couldn't care less for the downpour, the rumble of thunder in the distance, the timid lightning that peeks out from behind a cloudbank, floating melancholy above the dissolving barns of the old Parker Farm.

He has other things to care about.

He thinks of Anthea and how she deserves the best. She does not deserve to be held back or dragged down by him. She deserves a man worthy of a gold medal, worthy of perfection and most of all worthy of her…

The path forks suddenly. He takes the left, loses the tree cover, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He slows his pace and strides blind, correcting his trajectory only when his foot grazes grass. There is something unsettling in his voluntarily blindness and his mind treats him to a barrage of images of invalid cripples. He half-remembers a blind boy at his school, recalls his name with a little difficulty: Ashley Hannigan. Ashley was always there in the background, he remembers, used to hang around with Maddie Fenwick and Tom Bell.

Guilt returns when Jerome remembers the only occasion he had ever spoken to the boy; a near empty hallway, a cowardly attack by some younger boys, a cane clattering to the floor. Jerome had stared for a moment, debating whether or not to make himself known. He watched the tentative bend at the knees and the steadying hand on the wall.

Eventually, Jerome had started forwards, choking out the words, "I'll get it for you."

Ashley had tensed initially, but relaxed upon taking in the slow and steady footsteps of someone wishing to help and not the impulsively rapid gait of an attacker. The boys rose in unintended synchrony and, as soon as they were both standing again, Jerome pushed the cane gently into Ashley's left palm.

"Thank you." Ashley had offered, subconsciously transferring the assistance tool to the other hand. He had then asked for the name of his helper and Jerome parted his lips to reply, before closing them promptly at the sight of a group of year tens who had just entered the hall. They regarded him incredulously, raised eyebrows and narrowed eyes a plenty.

It was in this moment that Jerome finally realised there was a difference between boys like him and boys like Ashley, boys who were blind and boys who could read a bible passage at twenty feet.

The guilt swells as he recalls his subsequent actions; he had turned and fled in silence, taking the nearest exit and finding himself in the quad where he sought out his usual crowd. They were having lunch on the patch of grass adjacent to the music block and as he approached he was greeted with jovial tones and widened smiles.

He lowered himself into a space between Patricia Golding and Harry Jones and was immediately embroiled in a discussion about the recent disappearance of Patricia's favourite band, 'The Fight'.

"Broken up." Said Harry, matter-of-factly, chewing on a cold beef and horseradish sandwich.

"Nuh-uh." Patricia rebutted, imploring Erica Beaufort to join her cause with the largest pair of puppy-dog eyes she could muster.

Erica took a breath, ready to weigh in, "Harry, don't be silly; no one breaks up nowadays." She paused a moment, savouring the attention as all eyes turned to her. She quirked a knowing smile, "They_ get_ broken up; record sales plummet when you play to a minority demographic."

The conversation descended into chaos then and it was a chaos of which Jerome had no desire to be a part. He sat in silence instead, his stomach heavy and cold and churning with guilt. He surveyed his small circle of friends and noticed perfection in all of them.

Patricia was going to be an actress; she wasn't all that bright, but she was going to be beautiful, all doe eyes and flaxen tresses. Erica's future lay in politics, easily the brains of the bunch and able to win any argument she put her mind to. And Harry…Harry was going to be a restaurateur, owning an exclusive venue which only catered to the elite and wealthy. The details would come later, he said, but he was thinking New York or Paris.

What kind of future did someone like Ashley Hannigan have? Stricken blind through no fault of his own. His only wrong-doing was being born to parents who were either too poor or too ignorant to use GTCA.

This worried Jerome and his mind seemed loathe to leave the point for at least a week afterwards. Eventually, distraction came in the form of the annual swimming meet and the winning of first place by none other than himself.

There was much celebration and congratulation and his parents organised a party, inviting most of the student body. It wasn't until Maddie and Tom approached him at said party, did Jerome's thoughts return to Ashley and whether or not he was there.

"He's gone." Tom informed, a solemn tone in his voice.

"What do you mean gone?"

"We mean he got expelled." Injected Maddie with a sniff.

"Why?" Jerome queried, intrigue and onus tainting the word. His response was a disbelieving snort from Maddie and only when he raised an eyebrow in miscomprehension did she remit and elaborate on the action. "He's an invalid. The school's insurance won't cover them anymore."

Tom nodded sullenly, "He's having to be home schooled. Not coming back."

Over the next few days, more and more children became absent from the registers and the number of empty desks steadily grew.

Patrick Haverstock.

Jimmy Kane.

Amanda Smith.

Ruby Seville.

Jerome is not exactly sure when he forgot to remember the invalids, when it became easier to forget that they ever existed in the first place. And, in time, the desks were filled with new faces, new beautiful faces on new beautiful bodies, with new beautiful skills and who were destined for new and beautiful futures.

And here he was pretending to be blind, stumbling along the gravel trail, with no cane and no obligation, playing at something that made life so difficult for invalids across the globe.

He is supposed to be perfect, supposed to win the gold each and every time. _'But you didn't'_ sneers his superego again, _'You only won the silver.'_

He opens his eyes then, but it's too late; he's already too close to the edge of a verge and fails in his frantic attempt to steady himself, tumbles down the embankment, comes to a halt in a ditch which encompasses a long disused wheat field. He grimaces at the stench of rotten humus and stagnant water, but makes no immediate attempt to right himself.

Instead, he blinks upwards at the oyster shell sky as raindrops pepper his insensitive lenses.

Why should he have these perfect genes when he can only achieve second best?

Why should he be allowed to live a privileged and unprejudiced life if he can only win silver?

Why is he even here?

* * *

_**A long time coming I know, but I hope it's an ok chapter. I have a few ideas for the next one and a week away coming soon where I hope to get time to write more so hopefully I'll have something for you to read fairly soon. Thanks for reading. Special thanks indeed to Blue-Eyes Thropp for your encouragement, support and patience with this fanfic. Thanks for reading! **_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six.**

It is almost midnight by the time he returns to the mansion. Anthea is waiting up for him, perched anxiously on the vintage nursing chair in the corner of the entrance hall. She rises as he enters, draws him into an embrace, ignoring the state and stench of him. He takes a breath and readies himself to navigate her succeeding gauntlet of questions.

'Where were you?'

'You know where I was.' He forces a smile and for a moment miscomprehension taints her perfect features.

'That's not funny.' She chides and he is suddenly a mere pupil of hers, being chastised for a joke at the expense of another student. She fixes him with a raised eyebrow, folded arms. Eventually though, the façade dissolves and he makes note of the twitch of a smile on her lips. He is once again her lover, her fiancé, her equal.

_Well, almost…_

'What happened to you? You absolutely reek.'

'I fell in a ditch.'

'God, are you alright? Is that why you were gone so long? Did you struggle to get out? Where was it?'

He supposes he should answer these questions in order, but something is distracting him, coiling itself around his spine. The all-too-familiar avowal of '_She deserves better' _makes itself known again. He inwardly grimaces. Three little words, fast becoming an uncomfortable mantra inside his head.

He gives a short laugh, wonders if it sounds as fake as it feels.

'I was by the old Parker place…So, it wasn't too much of a struggle; you know those ditches have mostly all been filled in.'

_Liar._

'By the time I got out, the rain had eased up, so I walked through the copse and stood on the bridge a while.'

_Liar._

'I'm fine, really.'

_Liar._

He is glad when Anthea accepts the explanation, admitting that she is just glad he's alright. She makes him promise to take her with him on his next trip to 'nowhere', though. He makes the promise, she retires to bed contented.

By the time he has showered and crawled into the bed bedside her, Anthea is already asleep.

He, however, cannot sleep. He lies awake, marvelling at the way the moonlight caresses Anthea's perfect face. He reaches out and brushes away a few stray strands of hair and all the while, he is punished with onus, recalling what really happened after the fall.

He had climbed out and made a vague swipe at dusting himself off and by that time, the rain had eased up (that much had, at least, been true). However, he hadn't taken the path leading to the copse and bridge. Instead, he had found himself on the road to Loxwood, a series of blind bends and narrow thoroughfares.

And there, in the middle of the road, in the dead of night, when the ill-maintained tarmac was slick with rainfall and on the cusp of a sharp left hand curve, he stopped.

A strange feeling overcame him then, a peculiar giddiness, an unusual excitement; the feeling that if something were to happen at that moment, if a car were to come speeding around the corner and knock him down, that somehow the world would be put right again. Somehow, the ending of his life would mean the beginning of others.

His parents would not have to live with the shame of having a second rate son, his sister would be free to pursue her talents to the best of her abilities without having to worry about showing him up and Anthea…

Anthea would finally be able to love someone worthy of her.

In the end, it had been this thought of Anthea that saw him retrace his steps and head back home.

He pictured her waiting for him, trusting him to come back of his own accord, but all the while inwardly debating whether to brave the elements to go looking for him. If he were gone, if he were killed suddenly whilst she waited at home for him, she would never forgive herself. She would torture herself over it and she would do so for weeks, months, years even. She would replay the evening over and over in her mind, wondering why she didn't go looking for him when it got dark out, why she didn't go looking for him when everybody else went to bed, why she hadn't left with him at dinner in the first place. She would be too distracted, too guilty, too self-effacing to look for someone else to love. And _he_ would have done that to her.

And _this_, he realised, could not be allowed to happen…

* * *

_**Hi all (or just Blue Eyes since I'm sure you're the only one reading this lol),**_

_**I hope this isn't too bad a chapter, not really sure what happened to it. I began to write it a different way, but this happened instead. Now, the way I stated writing it is now going to be the start of chapter seven so hopefully it shouldn't take too long to get right and uploaded. Anyway, I have to go to bed now, I just wanted to get this posted beforehand. **_

_**I hope you enjoyed reading it anyway and sorry if it's not that great. Next chapter will (hopefully) be a lot better.**_

_**\- Vi**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven.**

'_A long time coming.'_

The words ring in his head like chapel bells (those of which he'll never now enjoy). They are not sarcastic or chiding. Merely accepting. This _has _been a long time coming. There has been planning, meticulous, obsessive. Every detail sketched out inside his mind. He made arrangements for Anthea's future, told his parents he was going to live abroad. They had asked why. He had answered with single words; Training. Anthea. Space.

Six months ago he stepped off a veranda and into a storm. Six months ago he played at being blind and ended up in a ditch. Six months ago he realised that he could no longer continue with the charade.

After all he had going for him he was still a step down on the podium.

The pain is not the first thing he notices. Instead, it is elation. He had never been so sober, stepping out in front of that car. And for a few brief moments, he had been airborne. The vehicle scooped him up, swept his legs up and over the bonnet without a moment's thought. He remembers thinking about the colour of the car, how he had never been so close to something that colour before (some sort of putrid green/gold). No, everyone drives black, white or silver, where he comes from.

It is not until he is grounded, until his body has met the tarmac with a sickening crunch, that he finally feels the pain. His head throbs, there is a sticky warmth above his eyebrow and across his left cheek and his right arm feels as if it is made of broken glass. His legs, well, he can't exactly feel his legs. There is a note of something stinging and aching in the small of his back, but nothing below this knot. He ignores the pain for a moment, tries to focus on the sky, the dark, pin-pointed sky. It blurs a little but does not fade. It is as real as it has ever been.

Then, something else comes into view; the frantic head of a man. He is blubbering something about not seeing him, how he is so sorry. He swears, fumbles for a phone, calls an ambulance. The man annoys him, offends him even. His existence is proof that he has once again failed, that he is once again not good enough.

And it is in this moment, when he should be screaming, trying to stand up, assuring the man that it wasn't entirely his fault, that something greater and more destructive than pain itself curls around him on the zephyrs of the night in a mocking echo of his out-of-reach shroud: Despair.


	8. Chapter 8

**Drowning In Fire**

**Chapter Eight**

The scene plays out in his mind, but his lips are unmoving.

_The room is white when he wakes. He is alone and he thinks this strange. Who paid for this private room? He had refused to speak when the ambulance came for him. He gave no name. Asked for no one. Screamed inwardly. They couldn't possibly know who he was._

His gaze is held by the chair across the room and he can feel the itch of the girl's on his cheek. He thinks he sees her shrug and raise her eyebrows in a silent prompt to keep speaking, but the confession has drained him.

_He lies still for days, unflinching, silent, numb. The doctors prod and poke, ask him if this hurts or that. He nods, shakes his head. They take him for some sort of scan. _

He would go on; there is more that needs to be said. Just not now. Just not to her.

_When he is back in his bed, a doctor comes to him, tells him the bad news, leaves uneasy when his patient neither cries nor acknowledges his presence._

'Is that it?' comes the verbal prompt, finally, and he cannot help but to wonder if she has spoken those words before in a slightly different context.

There is a pause and she sets her glass down on the side table, takes her weight on her palms and pushes upwards. Within a few seconds she is sitting on her haunches, expectant gaze trained on him.

'That's it.' He utters eventually, returning his focus to the perfect imperfection sitting on his bed.

He studies her and hates the world on her behalf. He loves her in this moment. He loves her because she stayed when he asked her to. He loves her because she listened patiently to his confession when she could have walked away. He loves her because she doesn't want to leave him. She wants to know more about him, wants him to continue the story of his fall, no leap, from grace.

He ignores the whispers of his disparaging superego, _'She's not interested in you; She's interested in your money. An easy night for her. Her usual fee without even having to take her clothes off.' _

He blinks slowly, pushes himself upwards against the head board. He gestures vaguely in the direction of the wheelchair.

'Would you mind?' He ventures.

She gives a nod in acquiescence, stretches her legs out from beneath her and stands. The sway in her hips is missing now. He finds he doesn't exactly mind.

The chair glides towards him and halts parallel to his side. A downwards movement of a foot and it is locked in this position. He sees it in his peripherals, a migrainous haunting shadow.

She moves towards him and the air is suddenly sweeter, almost sickly.

'Do you need my help?' She offers tentatively, outstretching a hand for his shoulder, but seemingly loathe to place it on him. It flounders a moment before dropping to her side.

He shakes his head, 'No. Thank you.'

'Are you sure?' The question comes too quickly and he stifles a grimace.

'_You see? She only pities you and you know why? Because you're pathetic.'_

He raises his chin, meets her gaze, treats her to a smile, 'Yes. I can manage. Really.'

Her face falls in terror, her eyes seem to inflate, 'Oh, God! I'm sorry; I didn't mean-'

'It's fine.' He placates, feeling like he should muster a laugh, 'I know what you meant.'

He watches as she drops her gaze, shifts uncomfortably. He rolls his weight slightly, digs around in a back pocket, retrieves his wallet. After a little rummaging he offers her payment. She hesitates – either surprised by the offer of cash or by the offer of payment at all – but, eventually accepts, folding the notes carefully and stowing them in the pocket of her trench coat.

Silence stretches between them. He searches for something to say, but nothing comes. Eventually, she dips her chin, offers an awkward smile and pivots for the staircase. He cannot help but to watch her. Her stride is gone and her gait is slow and hesitant. Maybe she thinks he'll call her back. Maybe she thinks she should stay to watch him, make sure he stays alive.

She reaches the bottom step, places a hand on the railing and a foot on the sheened wood. She half-turns.

'You know…' She begins and she fixes his gaze from across the room. He raises an eyebrow expectantly.

'…You can always ask for me…you know…next time…'

He narrows his eyes, feigns miscomprehension. She gives a shake of her head, regrets the sentiment, tries again.

'I can come back…if you need someone to talk to…or something.'

These words shame him, expose him. He shouldn't need to talk to anyone. He shouldn't need to rely on paid company to vent. He shouldn't be this weak. It offends him that she has worked him out, deduced him from one night in his presence.

Something catches in his throat, but he swallows it back. He wants to shout at her, to insult her intelligence, to call her every derogatory name that he can think of, to make her see that he is not as feeble as she would have him.

But he can't.

In the end, he can only offer a wan smile.

'Thank you.' He breathes, clearing his throat to dispel the crackle in the words. He scrambles for his composure, turns his gaze away and nonchalantly brushes at an imaginary blemish on his trouser leg.

'And who should I ask for?'

'Andrea.'

His heart splutters for a second. For a moment, he had misheard her, his gaze snapping upwards to re-read the curves of her face, the eyes, the cheekbones, the chin. Comprehension dawns and he calms himself. He gives a nod.

'Well, goodnight then, Andrea.'

She reciprocates, but not until the top step and not with his name. It is a simple farewell, but heartfelt. He can still read her concerns in her footsteps. However, it is not until he hears the door swing back onto its latch above him, that his superego sneers, reminding him of the woman's true intentions.

* * *

_**Blue-eyes! Here it is, as promised; The next chapter of Drowning in Fire. Not sure it's any good, but I managed to update so at least that's one thing. Anyway, hope you like it, sorry if it's not very good.**_

_**This fic is drawing to a close now so there'll probably be only one or two more chapters, just to let you know. **_

_**Thanks for reading!**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Drowning In Fire.**

**Chapter Nine.**

She sits in the car park, tapping fingers on the steering wheel. She reaches up, adjusts the rear-view mirror. Pitying eyes find the door through which she has just come.

She debates going back, but something stops her. She feels cold now, despite the warm air from the vents. What she has learned of the man who hired her, the man who should have been just a normal client, has chilled her.

Normally, she doesn't learn anything about her customers. A name perhaps and, depending on where she meets them, an address.

Sometimes they want to play games, escape from their banal lives by pretending to be someone else. When they ask this of her, she fabricates details too and when it's over, she leaves none the wiser.

But why did _he_ tell her so much? And what is she supposed to do with the information now that she has it? Is she supposed to look after him? Is she supposed to go back and never leave, just to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid? Is she supposed to report him?

She shakes the questions from her head. She can't look after him. She's not a nurse, not a doctor, not a psychiatrist; She would probably end up doing more harm than good.

She takes a breath, glances at the clock on the dashboard. It's still early enough, she reasons and outstretches a finger. The button is depressed, the phone begins to ring.

She looks down at the centre console as the small LCD lights up with the face of her employer.

'What's up?' He asks, dispensing with formalities, 'Are you alright?'

She watches his brow furrow dubiously. He knows the client, she remembers, thinks it strange that he would do anything to upset her.

'No. I'm fine.' She placates with a reassuring smile, 'Just, I'm all finished here and wondered if there's anything else.'

The man behind the glass bites a lip, makes an elaborate pantomime of searching the computer currently out of shot. Eventually, he gives a shake of his head.

'Nope. Nothing for you.'

She bristles. There is no intonation in his voice, but she still can't help but feel the phrase is somewhat derogatory.

_Nothing for the likes of you_.

She is an invalid, a victim of her parents' ignorance, their poverty, perhaps even their hubris. Perhaps they thought that their genes were good enough as they were, but in this world, unless you are the product of GTCA, nothing is good enough. And _they _have doomed her to this life.

She is luckier than some. Most don't even come close to working for a company like hers. They ply their trade on street corners or in slums, their only clients the violent, the diseased or the disreputable. At least she has steady pay and bosses who are fair, understanding and who look after their staff. Maybe one day she'll save enough to get out, to buy or build a place of her own and live out her days, not as an invalid, but as a human being, in peace and without discrimination.

But for now…for now, it is the best job she can hope for.

'Alright then.' She offers, dropping a finger for the switch, it hovers a moment, 'Guess I'll check in tomorrow. See you then.'

The screen fades to black and she leans forwards, defeated. The dreams of her future fading further and further into oblivion.

Regaining her composure, she flicks the ignition. She spares one last glance at the door, before driving from the car park.

At home, she tries to push the man from her memory, the man who calls himself Jerome, but who's marked as Eugene on the company records. However, he won't leave. She turns on the TV, turns it off again when a travel company ad coaxes people to visit England, tempting them with shots of the still green countryside and a mansion that has been converted into a luxury hotel. She imagines Jerome standing in front of the mansion hotel, posing for the camera, one arm around the woman with the chocolate coloured hair. The woman's smile is genuine, blissfully ignorant. Only, she can tell the man's smile is forced, concealing a self-loathing sadness, a feeling of unworth and the despair that comes with it.

The apartment is silent without the background noise the TV provides, but she figures it is of little consequence. She can very well live without it, especially if all it is going to do is remind her of Jerome.

She heads for the bathroom, sheds the trench coat and the lacey, silk skin she had chosen for the evening. This has become her ritual after work and even though Jerome was her only client for the night, she is loathe to break the habit.

There is something wrong tonight, though. She realises this as she watches the small room fill with steam and the irrhythmic droplets of near boiling water falling into shower tray below.

She steps into the glass cubicle, closes her eyes and tries to ignore the way the cascade feels like some sort of tropical rainstorm on her skin. Behind closed eyelids, she watches Jerome step off the veranda. He is soaked through in seconds, but not even a deluge such as this one can stop him. She forgets herself, follows him a while longer and within minutes he is standing on the blind corner, silhouetted against the fast approaching headlights of a greeny gold bucket of bolts. Her eyelids flicker open, hindered by the stinging shower spray, but she doesn't want to watch any longer, doesn't want to remember this part of the confession. This, she feels, is the worst part. The moment when a man decides to step out in front of a speeding vehicle. The moment he decides to take his own life. The moment he fails.

She is careful not to think of him for the rest of the evening, almost fearful of falling asleep. Eventually though, unconsciousness overcomes her and she settles into a restless slumber.

When she awakes, her eyeballs itch with exhaustion. She mopes around her apartment, lost in the tumultuous inward debate of whether or not she should return to check up on last night's customer.

_Why are you so worried? It's not like he's anything to do with you. If he wants to off himself, let him. Who cares? _

_You should care. In a way, he's not so different from you…Even despite his genes, he's still not good enough. You two have something in common, don't you? Remember?_

With a resigned sigh, she sweeps into the bedroom, throws on a pair of jeans and a hoody, secures her hair in a messy ponytail and slips into a pair of sneakers. She is out of the apartment within minutes, the keys to her car firmly in her grasp.

She almost gets lost in the daylight, the roads looking different in the mid-morning sun, but she reaches the familiar car park within an hour. She finds the spot she had the night before, slides the vehicle deftly into the narrow space.

Killing the engine, her bravado falters. Can she really justify walking up to the front door and waltzing in as if she owns the place? What if it's locked and someone sees her, assumes she's trying to break in?

She can already see the disbelieving expressions of the arresting police officers. She's not a valid, so they'll automatically assume the worst about her. They'll seek to press charges. Jerome might not even remember her, might believe them when they tell him she was trying to steal from him. Before she knows it, she's got a criminal record and no job (even _her_ employers have a reputation to uphold). She'll lose her apartment, her car. She'll have to move back home, wherever that is, of course. The whole incident will only widen the rift between her parents, rather than bring them closer.

She takes a breath and waits, surveys the few windows of the surrounding buildings visible from her ineffective vantage point. As far as she can tell, there is no one around, but she is still unsure if she can take the risk.

_But what if he's already done it? What if he waited for you to come back and when you didn't he necked a bottle of pills, washed them down with a bottle of whiskey? You might still save him if you hurry, but he's dead for sure if you sit out here and do nothing. That will be on you…_

Steeling her resolve, she reaches for the catch on the door, but stops at movement in the rear view. She adjusts this for a better look, sees the door open. A man in a smart dark suit steps through, goes to close the door, but gives something of a grimace, swings it open again. He shouts something. She can't hear properly, rolls down a window, strains to listen.

Eugene. The man is calling Eugene.

She relaxes at this revelation, rolls the window back up and continues to watch as the suited man closes the door and strides across the car park. He unlocks something sleek and shiny parked a few cars down from hers and she finds herself sinking subconsciously into her seat as he pulls out and purrs past.

She waits for an hour or so, her concern lessened somewhat by the discovery that Jerome is not completely alone, after all.

Something still niggles at the back of her mind, but she reasons, as she watches the occupants of the surrounding apartment blocks slowly waking, that there is little she can do for Jerome now.

The best thing she can do for him, right now, is to go home and wait to see if he sends for her. Only if he does, can she help him.

* * *

_**Wow. The second update in one day! I guess I have Blue-Eyes Thropp to thank for this. Getting me back on track. Thank you! **_

_**Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. My original intention wasn't to give Andrea much of a character, but once I named her, she wanted more 'screen time' lol. Don't you love it when characters do that? Anyway, I'm thinking the next chapter should be the last...haven't quite decided if I want a happy ending or a sad one yet. Maybe, I'll settle on something bittersweet...I don't know...Any preference? Drop me a PM. :)**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Ok... Well it looks as if this is going to be more than 10 chapters after all! I'm thinking now that perhaps there will be no more than fifteen chapters, but I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see I guess.**_

_**This is just a short chapter, basically a look at Jerome/Eugene's thoughts in the last scene that he and Vincent/Jerome are together in the film. It's a bit of a lazy thing to do, to basically just write up a scene from the movie, but I thought it fitted in and alluded to events that follow. I am a little angry at Vincent for not having figured it out from what Jerome said in that scene, but nevermind. **_

_**Anyway, I hope you enjoy! **_

* * *

**Drowning In Fire**.

**Chapter Ten.**

He hears him before he sees him. Despite the dull drone of the refrigerators, he can make out the whisper of the dust sheet beneath his fingertips just beyond the hidden door.

The door gives a hydraulic hiss as he opens it and he crosses the threshold in silence, studying Vincent for what will be the last time. He raises his chin, scrutinises the man before him. Disorder is what he finds; jacket unbuttoned, shirt creased and crumpled, hair dishevelled. There is no prize for guessing where he spent the night. He remembers the pretty blonde well enough, the ruse that saved them all.

'You're flying today, aren't you?' he asks. The response is a light-hearted shrug that says, 'So?'

He's certain questions will follow if he allows, so he gives something of a scoff, 'Look at what a mess you're in.'

He affords the standing man a smile, but is afraid he'll give himself away if he stares too long. He pivots the chair, heads back through the stainless steel door.

'Come on…I have your samples ready.'

He can hear the confusion in Vincent's footsteps. He predicts the next thing to cross the man's lips, but remains silent, focusing instead on the fridge to his left.

'I don't need any samples where I'm going.'

He eyes the handle with confliction. He wishes he could stay in this moment, keep Vincent a while longer. He wonders what will happen when the invalid gets back from Titan. What will happen if and when he is found out? Will he be revered for his achievement? Or branded a liar and a fraud? He wonders if he should stay to find out.

He fights back a shake of the head. He should leave. He knows it is the right thing to do. He has done all he can now. He is no longer needed.

'You might when you get back.' He replies, watching Vincent for any sign that he has just given himself away. There is a moment of doubt in his eyes, but he opens the door. There is another hiss and Vincent is all-at-once distracted by the jars of viscous red and watery yellow. They sit neatly beside one another, perfectly in line as if they were fine wines, de-cantered and displayed for all to see.

'Everything you need to last you two lifetimes.'

He stifles a grimace. That avowal should have buckled him, given him away. Why had he said it? Unless…unless he wants to be caught out…

He can't ask Vincent to stay, he knows he can't, but at the same time the prospect of what comes next terrifies him. There is nothing next. Whether he leaves or not, there is nothing.

Suddenly he can feel the itch of eyes upon him, he steels his resolve, knows what is coming.

'Why have you done all this?'

He blinks slowly, thinks a moment, allows a beat of silence between them.

'So Jerome will always be here when you need him.' He replies with confidence, almost jovially. Behind his eyes he is screaming.

_Figure it out!_

'Where are you going?' Vincent probes, his eyes twitch as he silently scrutinises.

_Come on. Work it out. Stay. Stay here so I don't have to leave…_

His thoughts run away without him, paying no mind what he wants. He wants Vincent to leave. His job has always been to make the invalid's dreams and ambitions reality. That has always been the way. If he asks him to stay, that would feel too much like failure and he can't allow himself to fail again. He just can't. This is going to be the one thing he gets right.

'I'm travelling too.' The words cross his lips, almost unbidden. They form something simple, something nondescript and safe.

Vincent regards the contents of the fridge a moment, blinks, looks as if he has finally worked it out, might ask more questions. In the end, he turns back.

'I don't know how to thank you.'

He falters at this, shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak, but can't find the words. Eventually, something comes to him.

'I got the better end of the deal…I only lent you my body…' He pauses, locks onto Vincent's borrowed blue eyes, 'You lent me your dream.'

He feels as if he should smile, but cannot manage the action. Instead, he awaits a reply, shifts beneath Vincent's gaze when nothing comes. It is then he remembers the letter, the envelope in the pocket of his blazer. It rests just above his metronome heart.

_Fitting…_ He finds himself thinking _…given the contents. _

He holds it out. Vincent takes it.

'Not until you're upstairs.' He warns.

The standing man turns the stiff square over in his hands a moment, his mouth twitching into a smile. He reciprocates, surprising himself and for moments they share the last smile they ever will.

Vincent leaves him then and he waits a moment before following, takes one last look around at the room he will never again see. It has no use to him now and will only be useful to Vincent if he is not found out, if he still wishes to maintain his false identity.

He meanders without direction or purpose for a while, listens for the gentle pitter patter of the shower. For a moment, this confuses him, the Furnace remains empty, but then comprehension dawns: Vincent has made it. There are no further tests, no obstacles standing in his way, no further need of the furnace.

Correction; Vincent no longer has need of the furnace.

* * *

_**Ok, so I could end it there, I suppose, but I know for a fact that Andrea wouldn't be happy with that (remember what I said about her wanting more attention?) Anyway, see you next chapter!**_


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